


WoI Episode 17: Into Darkness

by MrsHamill



Series: Riding the Wheel of If [12]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Multi, Multiverse, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-04-17
Updated: 2000-04-17
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8228975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHamill/pseuds/MrsHamill
Summary: Things take a nasty turn.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing nice about this one at all. PLEASE SEE NOTES AT END OF STORY FOR SLIGHTLY SPOILER WARNINGS.

Nervously, Obi-Wan pressed the doorbell to his old apartment, wondering, hoping: could this finally be the one – could this be it? His palms were damp and he wiped them on his tunic as he waited for the door to be answered.

The door opened … and Qui-Gon stood there. For a split second, he blinked at the shorter man, then staggered, his hand automatically reaching for the door frame to brace himself. “Obi-Wan?” he whispered, his eyes wide, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.

“Master,” Obi-Wan breathed, fighting to get the word out around the lump in his throat. “It’s … it’s me.”

“No … this … this can’t be … you’re dead …” Of its own volition, Qui-Gon's trembling hand came up to touch Obi-Wan's cheek, as if to prove that he was real.

Leaning into the light caress, Obi-Wan said, “I know. I died on Naboo … it should have been you. It WAS you … in my reality. Let me come in, I can explain.”

Qui-Gon stood aside and watched with stunned and hungry eyes as the young Knight walked into his quarters and looked around. It was _home_ , exactly as it had been before that horrible trip to Naboo. Though Obi-Wan knew Anakin lived here too, had lived here for almost exactly a year as Master Yoda told him, he could find no evidence of it. There were even datapads he remembered reading still on the desk, right where he had left them. Turning in the middle of the room, he smiled at the still-shocked Qui-Gon. “Why don’t you sit, it’s a rather long story.” As the bigger man did so, taking a seat on the sofa, Obi-Wan joined him, removing his robe and setting it and his backpack on the floor.

Looking around as he explained, Obi-Wan spotted all the little things that screamed “home” to him. The knickknacks on the shelving unit. The tea cup on the side table. The spicy, comforting aroma of Qui-Gon’s favorite tea. The unmistakable aura of Qui-Gon himself. All of this just reinforced his feeling that he had arrived, finally.

“You see, you died, on Naboo,” Obi-Wan said, concluding his explanation. “And I had to build myself a new lightsaber, so I did. But that ‘saber, every time I turned it on, it took me to a new reality – Master Yoda called them ‘ifs’ … places where other things happened. In some of them,” Obi-Wan took a breath to calm himself, and tried not to respond to how avidly Qui-Gon was staring at him, “in some of them, we both died on Naboo. In some, I never existed, or you never existed, or the Sith had taken over, always something. Never home. 

“That was months ago. I’ve been searching, going from reality to reality, hunting for home. Where I could tell you what I never got to tell you before you died. Before you … you pushed me aside for Anakin.”

Qui-Gon’s face suddenly crumpled in despair. “Oh … Obi-Wan. I’m so sorry … I never meant to push you aside. I – I feel so horrible about how I treated you. I wanted to talk to you, to explain, but the moment never came up … I should have made it come up. I couldn’t have pushed you aside. You don’t know how I feel …”

“Oh, I do, Master, Qui-Gon, I do,” Obi-Wan said earnestly, sliding closer to the big man. “I know now. I’ve been fighting for months now to come home, to you, to tell you I feel the same. I love you, Master. I’ve always loved you.”

Tears glistened in two pairs of eyes. “I don’t know how this is possible,” Qui-Gon murmured. “Am I dreaming? I’ve spent the last year kicking myself, hating myself, cursing myself and the Force and any gods that would hear … oh, Obi-Wan …”

“You are not dreaming. I am here.” Tentatively, Obi-Wan held out shaking hands, to have them clasped in bigger hands, equally trembling. Abruptly he was tugged forward and was suddenly in Qui-Gon’s embrace, and they were both laughing and crying and holding each other so tightly and it felt so good, so _right_ … This was his Master. This was _his_ Qui-Gon, not a different Qui-Gon from a different reality that was not his home …

The embrace naturally turned into a kiss, one lit with fire and passion. Obi-Wan pressed himself against Qui-Gon, nearly climbing into his lap in his need to feel more, to hold tighter. Qui-Gon was saying something, over and over, the words swallowed by Obi-Wan’s mouth until the Knight managed to tear his lips away long enough to decipher them. “Love you, love you, love you,” the Master was repeating as tears slipped down his cheeks.

Obi-Wan kissed the tears away lovingly, running his hands through the thick hair and along the strongly muscled shoulders, pulling the familiar body so close … With a muffled “Oomph,” Qui-Gon jerked. “What the Force,” he muttered, caught between laughing and sobbing.

He had been running his hands down his former Padawan’s back and had encountered something. Obi-Wan also chuckled through the tears he hadn’t noticed were falling. “Oh … sorry, that’s the ‘saber …”

“The one that takes you …” Obi-Wan nodded. “May I see it?” Qui-Gon asked.

Reaching behind himself, Obi-Wan pulled out the ‘saber, careful to keep his fingers away from the switch. Qui-Gon took the thing and weighed it in his hands for a moment. Then, with a hitch in his breath, he threw it against the wall so hard it shattered – into what seemed to be a million pieces. “You are home now, Obi-Wan. Home.” Clasping the violently-trembling Knight in his arms again, Qui-Gon said, “I will never let you go. Home, Obi-Wan.”

“Home, Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan choked out. “Oh, yes, Force yes, I love you, I love you …”

“I love you, Obi-Wan. You. Only you. You … You … You … You …”

\---

“YOU! Hey! I said, get up!” A rough boot prodded his midsection and Obi-Wan groaned. Coarse laughter and then another prod. “I ain’t telling you again! Now get up before we give you some more!”

Struggling, still sleep-fuddled, Obi-Wan managed to struggle to a sitting position, which appeared to satisfy his jailers as there was no more yelling. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, then closed his eyes as memories flooded back. It had seemed so real … he had been home. Home. Home was never so far away as it was now.

He hissed as he felt the bruises – incompletely healed from the yesterday’s ‘session’ – still throbbing along his back and ribs. At least the cuts weren’t bleeding any more, he noted with desultory satisfaction. Not having been fed properly in weeks, almost since his initial incarceration four months before, he lacked the energy to do more than a cursory healing, and that only when the Force collar was off, which wasn’t often.

A low rumble in the hallway outside his doorless, windowless niche of a cell told him that his daily slop was on the way, and his stomach rebelled. What food and drink was available was rancid and nasty. But he forced himself to eat, to keep up his strength. He knew that he would get out of this predicament. Somehow …

The bent old woman who pushed the slop cart stopped at his cell and filled trenchers for him. She placed the disgusting meal before him, just inside the limit of his chains, then looked at him with something like sympathy in her eyes. “He’s back,” she whispered. “His Lordship. He’s back. Force pity you.”

Picking out the worst of the bugs and mold from his stale bread and other, less distinguishable, food, he frowned, thinking of her words. Who could ‘he’ be? She had said, ‘His Lordship.’ Obi-Wan was aware that this Temple was Sith-controlled, so he feared she was referring to Palpatine, whom he knew to be the Sith lord in his own reality. But who …?

A commotion just outside the oubliette brought his head up. He could hear the guards, loud and crass, speaking to someone insolently, then heard a yelp of pain. Some grumbles and then footsteps heading down the corridor. “It’s this one,” he heard. One of the guards stood at the entrance to his alcove, and next to him stood a figure in black.

After a moment, the black hood was lowered to reveal the face of a stunningly attractive woman. Black hair and an oval face were offset by lush, red lips and dark, beautiful eyes. There was something dreadfully familiar about her, but Obi-Wan, in his deprived state, could not figure out what it was.

She stood and looked at him for a long moment. Though he wore a Force collar under the chains that bound him to the ring in the wall, Obi-Wan suspected she was examining him with Force sense, which just made her appearance all the more familiar. Though beautiful, her face held a coldness, a harshness that sent shivers up his spine. And her eyes … completely black, they nearly glowed with something very much akin to madness.

Her jaw worked in evident distaste. “You’ve done a good job on him. Such a pretty boy I’m sure he was … no longer. Good. My Master wishes to see him later.”

“As you say, Lady Kyratos,” the guard mumbled, sneering carefully at her back as she turned on one heel and stalked away. After a moment, he joined her, leaving Obi-Wan in confusion.

Kyratos … the name was so familiar. And the face, the voice … so achingly familiar. Where had he seen that woman before?

\---

For almost the last four months, Obi-Wan’s day had been the same. He was woken by harsh words and threats. He would be ‘fed’, then left alone for a while. By the late afternoon, the guards would come for him, apparently taking their workouts by beating him senseless, asking him questions he would not or could not answer. For the first month or so, he was able to retreat into himself, to float above the pain and brutality. Of late, that was becoming increasingly difficult to do, probably due to his weakness.

He was lucky, he assumed, and had not been assaulted with anything other than fists, batons and whips. Once, he remembered vividly, one of the guards had eyed him lasciviously as he lay gasping on the floor, and Obi-Wan had gone cold to see the man fingering the fastening to his pants. But another guard had taken him aside and whispered something to him, which put an end to that. However, from that moment on, the guard had eyed him with something akin to pity and that was even more frightening than the prospect of rape.

This day, however, was different. Late afternoon and nothing happened, to his surprise, so Obi-Wan found himself dozing, while one small part of his brain continued to worry at the name Kyratos, trying to warn him of something – but the warning simply wouldn’t come clear. He opened his eyes to find himself in bed with Qui-Gon and Obi-One, all three of them naked and sweaty and sated and smiling. Qui-Gon rubbed the back of his neck.

“What’s wrong, Obi-Two?” the big man asked.

“I’m … I’m trying to remember something,” Obi-Wan replied. “It’s just not coming clear.”

“You should meditate more,” Obi-One said, slithering around him to fondle Qui-Gon’s genitals, smiling slyly at the big man. “This is my favorite method,” he added, then fastened his mouth around the half-hard penis he was fingering.

Qui-Gon grinned down at his Padawan and stroked his head. “Yes, that works. Trust in the Force, Obi-Two. Come here and let me fuck you.”

“N – no,” Obi-Wan said slowly. “Something’s not right.”

“What’s not right?” Qui-Gon said, his eyes suddenly glinting darkly. “Well, if you won’t, then I’ll take Obi-One. You’re exactly the same anyway,” he added. Reaching down, he tugged his apprentice up off his cock, then sank his teeth into the young man’s neck. Blood spurted.

“Ah. Much better,” Qui-Gon mumbled around his lips which were drinking greedily. Obi-One sighed in pleasure and went limp. Obi-Wan gasped and tried to cry out …

He woke up. It was late afternoon or early evening, hard to tell in this horrifying place. A hard boot to his back was stirring him from his uneasy slumber. Expecting his normal beating session, he was surprised to be dragged to his feet and out into the dimly lit, damp corridor. He tried to walk, but his two handlers didn't allow him the opportunity. As he was pulled and dragged along an interminable hallway, he overheard snatches of conversation.

“…Yeah, well, Kyratos is getting too big for her britches. No longer most favored …”

“… His Lordship will see to her …”

“… Some apprentice …”

It suddenly dawned on him. Kyratos … the female for Xanatos! That’s where he had heard the name, in that reality where he’d had to leave a badly hurt Sil-Wan to die. Kyratos was the second Padawan to … oh, no. It couldn’t be …

Finally, his mind reeling and body spasming, he was pushed through a doorway and left to stand, wavering, alone. He blinked in the dim light, his reality phasing in and out like a badly focused image, his brain gibbering in panic. It was different, this place. Warmer, and the air didn't smell of urine and feces and blood. He tried to take a step, almost fell and a voice spoke out of the darkness, a blindingly, horribly familiar voice.

“Stay still. Do not move.”

Ignoring the order, he turned towards the voice and felt an invisible fist close around his throat.

“I said – do – not – move!” Each word was punctuated by a savage increase in pressure and he choked, gasped for air.

A figure stepped out of the shadows. He stared at it, shocked and mesmerized at the same time. Qui-Gon! It was unmistakably Qui-Gon – and it was equally not Qui-Gon. Physically similar; tall and slender, rich brown hair lying over his shoulder in a long fall, bearded, and each facial feature exactly the same. As they always were.

Yet this face was lined by dissipation, creases of cruelty shadowing his mouth; his eyelids were half-closed over predatory eyes. When he came out into the light, Obi-Wan staggered slightly: his eyes … those wonderful eyes, that had always been that clear cerulean blue – they were gold, hard and feral.

His skin was pale, as if he rarely ventured outside, and it contrasted starkly with the black he wore. Black everywhere, from high-collared tunic, to black gloves on the long-fingered hands, down over black pants and boots. He sucked in light like a black hole.

And the way he moved – it wasn't a walk so much as a glide, almost soundless, his long cloak swirling around him like wings. He circled Obi-Wan, who felt as if he were being visually dissected. The pressure on his throat had eased and he took a shaky breath to speak.

“Qui-Gon …”

One black-gloved hand rose and cupped his chin. “You are very disobedient. I don't know who you are or how you know that name, but you will not use it. The only words you will address me with, little Jedi, are Master or My Lord.”

The hand wandered over him with proprietary ease, checking the collars and bindings, unconcerned by his physical state. He knew what this strange dark image of his beloved Master saw – a chained Jedi, half-blinded by Force collars, beaten and bruised, filthy from his own waste, a starved shadow of his former self. Not a very attractive sight. The hand dropped and the Sith stepped away, his face grimacing in disgust.

“You smell. I'll have you cleaned and then we'll see what use you can be to me.”

At some unseen signal, more emotionless creatures came and carted him away, cleaned him with efficient disinterest, taking no care at all over the open sores that riddled his body. Obi-Wan could neither help nor hinder them and indeed barely felt them; still completely in shock from what he had seen, who he had seen, his brain was numb with a combination of terror and despair. Finally, the washing seemed to be over and he was returned, naked, to the same room. 

Qui-Gon was seated at a desk before a high window that looked out into the night sky of Coruscant. He continued working at the dataset before him as Obi-Wan stood, swaying a little. He tried to remember the last time he'd eaten … was it today or yesterday? … and aside from the little water he'd managed to sop up when they'd cleaned him, he was very thirsty still. Chilled, weary, hungry and thirsty, still he steadied himself and took deep, steadying breaths. Fear led nowhere but darkness, and there was more than enough of that around him without making more of his own; indeed, the Dark Side seemed almost to drown him, hammering at him like a hurricane at the door to a hut.

He looked around, gauging his surroundings. It was obviously Qui-Gon’s personal apartment; there were several rooms to the suite, some of which he could only glimpse through doorways. A large bed was in one corner. A surge of elation, quickly dampened … his backpack was on a table under the window. He could see all three lightsabers arranged next to it, and it looked to be completely intact. If only he could …

Finally, Qui-Gon stood and walked around the desk to stand in front of him. A gloved hand forced his head up and golden eyes fixed on his face. 

“My guards tell me they were alerted to your presence in the Temple about four months ago, while I was away. No one seems to know how you got here, or what your intention was, or even who raised the alarm. I happen to know there are no more Jedi, as I killed the last of them about ten years ago.” Golden eyes bored into him. “Who are you?” The voice was soft, oddly gentle. “What is your name?”

“Obi-Wan. Kenobi.” He held himself still under that unblinking gaze. “Jedi Knight.”

The wide mouth tipped up in a smile and the gloriously familiar voice carried a hint of cold, cold humor. “Ah. Spirit. That makes it so much more worthwhile. It isn't anywhere near as pleasant breaking the already broken.” The smile slipped a little and Obi-Wan tried not to twitch as fingers slid around behind his head to work up into his still-damp hair. “The name means nothing to me and yet …you are somehow familiar. We have never met, have we.”

It was a statement, requiring only his confirmation. “We have met many times,” Obi-Wan said, equally quiet, reluctantly locking eyes. “Just not in this world.”

“Jedi spiritualism, how charming. I’ve missed it. Truly. Such sophistry.” The fingers touched the Force collar; there was a click and it loosened and Qui-Gon slid it away from Obi-Wan's throat. “There, you are in touch with the Force again, Knight Kenobi.”

Sweet Light, but it felt good! Even tainted and overwhelmed as it was by the Dark, still Obi-Wan felt as if a strangling blindness had been lifted from him. He sighed. “Thank you.”

The Sith frowned, eyebrows twitching together briefly. “It wasn't done as a kindness, young man, but I won't belabor the point.”

Obi-Wan reached out instinctively, seeking to read the man in front of him, only to be met by impenetrable shields. It was like trying to touch something long dead, a cold slippery darkness, but he kept pushing, looking for something recognizable. Sensing the probe, the Sith lashed out through the Force, smothered Obi-Wan in a wave of Darkness that was almost suffocating. Qui-Gon's voice came to him, icy and harsh.

“You wish to touch me, Jedi? Then come to me, join with me in the Dark. It is the only way you will ever know my spirit. Let go of the Light and you can …”

“No” Obi-Wan pulled back, sought his center and straightened with calm dignity. “I am Jedi, as you … are. Were. I will not turn.” He tried to reached out again, an almost insubstantial source of Light against that greater Darkness, his power a source of perfect conviction. “Hear me, Qui-Gon – please –”

The wide mouth curled into an appreciative smile. “Oh yes. It has been so long.” The Sith stripped off his gloves and dropped them onto his desk before stepping closer. He ran one warm hand up Obi-Wan's chest, sharp nails running over nipples as sensitive as raw nerves. The touch was feather-light, almost tender – and then he was picked up in a crushing grip and shoved backwards into the wall, the breath knocked from his lungs, his head hitting the wall with such violence that he almost blacked out.

“I hear you, Jedi, now you hear me …” He found himself spreadeagled, arms and legs pinioned by overwhelming power. The Qui-Gon monster was pressed against him, hissing into his ear. “You will come to me willingly, beg to be turned and taken, offer your innermost vulnerable places to me to touch and taste. I will make of you a thing suitable only for my pleasure.” One sharp-nailed hand tangled in his hair and pulled, sharply. “Such a lovely sight – helpless, defeated Jedi …” 

For one frozen, terrified instant, Obi-Wan was certain Qui-Gon was going to kiss him, and both his stomach and mind rebelled in horror. But a sickly-sweet voice from behind them rescued him.

“My, what a picture, Master. I didn’t know you went in for half-dead whipped dogs. Had I known, _I_ would have procured one for you.” It was Kyratos, her tone at once insolent and furious. 

Releasing Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon turned. “Kyra. I did not send for you, my dear.” 

“No, you didn’t, did you. Which gives me pause, actually. I do hope you are not intending on letting that – that former pretty-boy Jedi take my place.” Her dark eyes gleamed with malice as she raked Obi-Wan up and down. “He can’t possibly give you what I do, Master.”

Qui-Gon’s voice was silky as he gave his attention to his apprentice. “Do you really think that, Kyratos? Or perhaps do you feel that you are strong enough now to strike me down?”

Her chin lifted in defiance. “Never, Master. We were made for each other. You’ve said it yourself.”

“And yet, you continue to vex me with your impertinence.”

“Perhaps you should do something about that then, Master,” she purred in reply, reaching a hand out and calling something to her. His breath hitching, Obi-Wan realized it was a leather quirt that looked well used. Never removing her eyes from those of her Master’s, Kyratos brought the whip to her lips for a kiss, then held it out to Qui-Gon.

A lazy smile lit the beloved features, and Obi-Wan shuddered. “Strip, then, for me Kyra,” Qui-Gon said, running his fingers up and down the quirt. Turning to Obi-Wan, he said in a conversational tone, “You see, little Jedi, here is a paradox. She has been impertinent. She deserves punishment. And yet, punishment is what she craves. So the question remains, is it a punishment if it’s what she wants?” Looking back at his apprentice, who now stood before him nude, he ran the edge of the quirt down between the cleft of her breasts. So quickly his hand was a blur, he brought the quirt across the sensitive nipples, raising a large welt and making her gasp involuntarily. 

“Is that what you want, my beloved apprentice? To be punished?” 

“A – as you wish, Master,” she gasped, her cheeks flushed. “You – you know I will do anything you say, my Master …” she murmured slowly, beginning to cringe away from something she saw in his eyes.

“Well, then, punishment you shall get,” he said, still in that dreadful conversational tone. Abruptly, he was whipping the tall woman, her head, her neck, her belly and breasts, and she was gasping, twisting as she tried to avoid them. This was obviously far more than she had intended, and she cried out, taking involuntary steps back away from the arm that rained blows down upon her. 

“Master … No!” she gasped, trying to evade. “Please … That’s not …”

Twisting in his invisible chains, Obi-Wan tried to break free to come to the young woman’s aid. Without even looking at him, Qui-Gon tightened the bonds that held him to the wall, threatening to cut off the circulation to his hands and feet. Another bond was added to his neck, keeping his head steady so that he could not turn away from the spectacle before him.

“You wanted punishment, my young apprentice, here you are!” Qui-Gon said, laughing lightly as he alternated blows from the quirt with blows from his hand. A solid connection of his fist to the side of her head made her reel, and suddenly she was at the edge of the bed. With one hand he slapped her down, continuing the beating. Qui-Gon wasn’t even working up a sweat, but Kyratos was shaking, biting her lip and drawing blood in her attempts to keep from crying out, her arms up to protect her face, her body a mass of welts. 

Frantically, she tried to crawl away from him, across the bed, still begging him to stop, pleading with him to not do this to her. Tossing away the whip, Qui-Gon grabbed one of her thighs in his big hand and twisted, yanking her back towards the side of the bed and roughly raising her hips, while with his other hand he opened his pants and pulled out his large, hard member. Obi-Wan wanted to close his eyes then, but found he could not; his whole being was focused on the display before him, on the pale, tear-drenched face he could see plainly. For a split second, Kyratos’ dark eyes locked on his, revealing more in that moment of pained desperation than any words could. He wanted to speak, to say something, to scream a denial but hard, vicious Force bonds blocked his throat and his words.

Qui-Gon shoved forward, breaching her anus, his face a mask of brutal pleasure as he rammed himself into his apprentice, into the tight, unaccustomed passage. Kyratos screamed in pain, clutching at the bedclothes and sobbing as her Master sodomized her. He grunted as he began thrusting, the only indication of his feelings. 

Kyratos screamed again, hoarsely. “Oh, am I hurting you, my young apprentice?” Qui-Gon asked, his breathing barely elevated as he took his pleasure. Obi-Wan's stomach roiled to hear that wonderful, familiar voice speaking such foulness. “I thought you liked new things, Kyra. Or perhaps I’m just not doing it hard enough for you. Here. I’ll do it harder. I know how much you like it.”

Qui-Gon had her hips in a bruising grasp, and began wrenching her back to him strongly, roughly impaling her over and over as she writhed and shrieked. Suddenly he grunted and froze, his back arched as his climax rolled over him. “Yessss. Let me – yes, all of it.” He wiped his tongue over his lips, smiling in a way that made Obi-Wan feel ill. “A little too fast, but the sight of you always does that to me, my sweet.”

After a moment, he shoved her body away roughly from him, hitting her one last time so hard she fell off the bed and landed in a heap. Obi-Wan winced to see the blood coating the big man’s penis as he turned. Picking up some of her discarded clothes, Qui-Gon used them to clean himself, snarling down at his apprentice.

“You stupid bitch,” he said, re-fastening his pants. “What a pathetic display. You call yourself a Sith … useless. Completely. I should just kill you now …”

There was a noise from across the room, the dataset pinging. He looked up and frowned, then looked back down at the bloody, defeated woman near the bed. “Get out. I don’t want to see your ugly face ever again.”

Striding to the dataset, Qui-Gon sat and took the call. Kyratos, still sobbing, blood dripping down her legs and from numerous welts and cuts, managed to pull herself to her feet and gather her clothes. “This is all YOUR fault, pretty boy,” she hissed shakily at Obi-Wan, still trapped by Force bonds against the wall. Her eyes were lit with utter madness, and Obi-Wan shuddered to see it. Turning her tear streaked face one last time to Qui-Gon, she limped as rapidly as she could from the room.

A short time later, Qui-Gon returned to his captive. Obi-Wan was completely numb, the brutal scene he had just witnessed frightening him beyond belief. Even had he not been attached to the wall by Force bonds, he would have been incapable of moving, of doing anything except possibly vomiting his terror. Now, as Qui-Gon turned his attention back to his prisoner, Obi-Wan found himself cringing away, trying to melt into the wall, anything to get away from those loathsome golden eyes and that oh-so-familiar voice.

“Now, my little Jedi,” Qui-Gon said, smiling to feel the dread and anguish rolling off the young man before him. “We’ll have no more interruptions, I trust. I can simply devote myself … to you.”

And then he did kiss Obi-Wan, and proceeded to do other things as well.

\---

Qui-Gon was petting his hair as he wept on the big man’s naked legs. “What’s wrong, my Obi-Two?”

“I can’t … I can’t …” Obi-Wan seemed incapable of explaining. “It’s … it’s so horrible, it hurts …Gods, it hurts so bad …”

“Pain is to be endured,” Qui-Gon intoned. “Release it to the Force.”

“The Force doesn’t even listen to me any more,” Obi-Wan sobbed.

“You should have stayed with us when you had the chance,” Qui-Gon said. “You didn’t, and look where that’s gotten you. You are just useless. Like this one …” Qui-Gon indicated with his hand and Obi-Wan turned.

Obi-One lay on the bed behind him, his eyes glazed, his mouth drawn in a rictus of death and his throat slit, ear to ear. Blood was everywhere, he could smell it, taste it, and when he brought up his hands to hide the sight he realized his hands were dripping with it. He tried to scream but his throat was parched from lack of fluid and only a croak emerged, just sufficient to wake him from his latest nightmare into his continuing one. 

In the darkness of the room belonging to the monster who had been Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan lay alone: a broken, bloody heap that had once been a Jedi Knight. He wore no chains, no Force collars, but he was trapped as if he had been behind duranium steel bars.

How long had it been? He don't know, everything was confused. The other changed the lights, made it dark, made it bright. Manipulated the light like everything else. He thought, I'm blind! and then he thought, I'm not but I'm not sure. He imagined things and they sometimes happened. He imagined his torturer would pluck out his eyes but that one hadn't happened. He'd kissed them not so long ago. Tasted his tears, drunk them. Perhaps his eyes were safe, perhaps he couldn't cry without eyes, or could he? Would his tormentor want to find out, and test whether it was so?

He couldn't die from pain alone, he told himself that. He probably wouldn't die from having a stunrod pushed up inside him and ignited – though he 'd wanted to go away then. He probably wouldn't die from having his joints dislocated and pressure put on them until he screamed and begged for release. The fine cutting that the monster did all over his body wasn’t even all that painful – after all it was a very sharp knife – but the salt and other chemicals rubbed into the cuts made him scream.

He might even survive more of the same sort of pain from having those leather straps tightened around his genitals as he stood on tiptoes trying to take the weight off the strap that tightened around him down there and it hurt so much, so much … more than he had ever imagined anything could hurt. And then, his tormentor would devise something worse.

He'd begged to be released. Begged. It was an education, an enlightenment. He'd never begged for anything before, never sobbed with relief as he'd been lifted down into those arms, looked up into hot golden eyes and said, yes, yes, do anything to me, just stop the pain. And those hands, that had touched him with such casual viciousness, took away his pain and accepted his surrender. 

Though his knees hurt from the dislocations, he had gone down onto them to allow the monster entry to his body. The Sith had given him water laced with some foul chemical that brought him to an aching, overwhelming arousal. Shame was lost under the devastating need. He felt the big cock thrust into his torn ass with as much pleasure as pain, even when the inadequately-healed tissues ripped again. That was the final ravishment. To be raped and to want it as much as he wept for it.

That didn't seem to bother the man who took him. He accepted that final, horrible truth as the Sith possessed him: the truth that the one he loved could, in this awful reality, be purely evil. There was no light in that dark spirit, no goodness, no kindness. Here, Qui-Gon was as dead as was in Obi-Wan's own universe. This dark, fascinating, horrifying shell was nothing that he could ever love. Some battles were lost before they could be fought.

He wasn’t even able to scream “WHY?” to the Force any more; his brain was completely numb. He had done plenty of wondering during his captivity and early beatings, and had even tried to figure it out once he had recognized the monster for who he was. But the Force was silent. And now, it barely came to his call at all.

He was left, finally, to lie on the soft, carpeted floor, wet with his own blood and tears, with the sad understanding that he would die here, no matter what the Force had promised him. So certain was the Sith of his victory that he hadn't even bound the young Knight. But while his body was damaged and his mind numb, the one place the dark man hadn't touched was Obi-Wan's spirit – and that was stirring him to flight.

One way or the other he would escape. Either to a different reality, or to death.

\---

Soft hands ran over his ravaged face as he lay in a bloody heap on the floor. “Not so pretty any more, eh, pretty boy?” a quiet voice said. Kyratos.

Abruptly his hair was roughly grabbed and his head wrenched back. One eye was completely swollen shut, and the other was pretty badly bloodshot, but he could see her, kneeling in front of him. “If I kill you now, he won’t have you any more and he’ll come back to me,” Kyratos was murmuring. A cold, sharp object was weaving its way down his chest. “I should just gut you now.”

It was very hard to speak around his swollen abused tongue and lips, but with supreme effort, he managed. “Go ahead,” he mumbled. “Do it. It won’t matter.”

The blade – or whatever it was – stopped moving, just above his navel. “What do you mean?” she finally said, her voice suspicious. 

Calling every scrap of Force to him that he could muster, Obi-Wan managed to gather enough strength to talk. “Kill me and he’ll still push you aside. He’s used you up, Kyra. You mean nothing to him anymore. So go on. Kill me. I’d welcome the release.”

The woman froze, staring at him through narrowed eyes. Obi-Wan didn’t have to try to mask his feelings … he'd had none since the monster raped him, that part of his mind had completely shut down, gone on holiday, out to lunch, never returning. And his face was so swollen from his frequent beatings that there was no expression that would have shown up anyway. Her mouth working, Kyratos blasted a Force probe into him, looking for his thoughts, but encountered only a void. An aching, empty, dark void.

“I’m not afraid of him, you know,” she said, almost casually. Releasing his hair, she sat back on her heels and used the knife to trim a fingernail. “I’m not. I don’t care what you saw. I like it like that. He knows it too.”

Wearily, Obi-Wan let his one good eye sag shut. She grabbed his hair again and shook his head viciously. “I can beat him,” she hissed into his face. “I can. I can whip his ass and make him sorry for the day he ever trained me. I’ll make him sorry he lived, that he let me live. I will.”

“Then why don’t you, my young apprentice?” a silky voice said behind her. Snarling, but trembling too, Kyratos dropped Obi-Wan’s head and whirled, standing with her back to the wall. “Are you ready to face me now, finally, Kyra? Are you? Or will you just back down again, like the coward you are?”

The monster stood in the doorway to the room, his body at ease, his face a pleasant mask, his eyes glittering with malice. Obi-Wan could feel the rage and trembling fury in the woman who stood near him, but it ceased to have any meaning for him. Carefully, with much agony, he managed to prop himself up against the wall, leaving his abused knees bent to one side.

The tableau held for a few heartbeats, then Kyratos suddenly ignited her blood-red ‘saber and leaped at him, screaming, “I’ll KILL YOU!”

The monster didn’t move until she was almost upon him, then casually shifted aside, avoiding her charge. He apparently expected her to overextend in her charge, but she surprised him, whirling quickly and coming down for the killing blow. Qui-Gon barely managed to dodge in time, and as it was, she managed to get in a glancing blow to his arm. The smell of burnt flesh suddenly permeated the room.

Another ‘saber, one that was dark red like old, spilled blood, was suddenly lit and the Master and apprentice began fighting furiously. The injury to his arm enraged Qui-Gon; like his apprentice, he was snarling and foaming in his earnest desire to destroy her. They fought through the room, kicking over tables and chairs, and at one point Kyratos’ ‘saber came down on the dataset, destroying it in a shower of sparks.

Obi-Wan watched from his vantage point against the wall. The numbness in his mind for some reason was receding, ever so slightly, leaving him more aware of his surroundings, the flaring pain in his joints and ass and face, the desperate thirst and hunger that ate at him. Slowly it began dawning on him that the blankness had been caused by the monster’s hold over his mind … a hold that was gradually lessening as he devoted more energy to destroying his apprentice.

Kyratos was screaming continuously as she fought demonically. Apparently she had gone completely mad and in her madness was cunning, for her Master appeared not to be able to counter all her moves. She pressed him back, completely out of control, and to Obi-Wan’s surprise Qui-Gon suddenly tripped over the ruins of a chair in the middle of the room. His lightsaber went flying. 

Laughing hysterically, Kyratos went in for the kill. But Qui-Gon reached out a hand and called to himself a ‘saber … one of the three ‘sabers on the shelf under the window near Obi-Wan’s backpack. For one brief, terrified instant, Obi-Wan was afraid he had called the switch ‘saber … but then he ignited it, bringing it up to parry Kyratos’ hammer-blow, and the blue-white glow of the new ‘saber Obi-Wan had built months ago clashed with the red from Kyratos’. One tiny, sane corner of Obi-Wan’s mind was glad it was his newly built ‘saber the Sith took rather than the one belonging to his Master that Obi-Wan still carried … he wouldn’t have been able to accept that Monster fighting with his beloved Master’s ‘saber.

Obi-Wan couldn’t breathe. His whole being was focused not on the fight any longer, but on the backpack on the shelf. It was nearly within reach, only a few, short, endless feet away.

A scream brought his attention back to the duel. Qui-Gon had disarmed the woman and was standing over her, gloating. “You see, you idiot,” he snarled, still breathing heavily, “you are no match for me. I suppose you expect me to kill you now.” He looked with distaste at the blue-white ‘saber he still held in his hands. “I will. But not with this.” He threw it away from himself, then held out his hands.

“Die, you stupid bitch,” he murmured, and blue lightning shot from his fingertips to engulf Kyratos. She screamed again, a high, keening sound that purely ripped Obi-Wan’s guts from his body. Kyratos writhed and begged under the onslaught, but the monster merely smiled and redoubled his efforts.

A snap in his head and Obi-Wan realized he was free. With effort, he pulled himself up the wall and staggered to the shelf, falling with a gasp just out of reach. A quick look told him that Qui-Gon was still busily torturing his apprentice, whose cries were becoming weaker. One last push, one last gasp, Obi-Wan forced his broken and abused body to obey him and suddenly he was there … clutching the backpack to himself and grabbing his switch ‘saber and his Master’s ‘saber to his bloody chest. Then a voice behind him.

“Such spirit. You think to challenge me, little Jedi? You will merely end up the same as her.” The monster indicated his now dead and burned apprentice. “Don't try. Come to me, come to the Dark. What a Sith you will make …”

But now, finally, the Force was singing through him. It filled his brain and his body and he straightened, not looking behind him, not looking to see the golden, evil eyes of the monster with Qui-Gon’s face.

“No.” The word was said softly, but with conviction, and he ignited his ‘saber.

\---

With a bang of displaced air, a naked, bleeding and shivering Obi-Wan Kenobi popped into an empty apartment. A chill wind blew in from a glassless window, swirling around the debris scattered on the cement floor. Dropping to his abused knees, Obi-Wan turned off his ‘saber and clutched at his backpack, sobs hitching in his throat as he frantically extended his senses for any lifeforms. He detected none. This Temple was abandoned, this world was abandoned; as far as he could tell, he was the only living sentience on the planet. Rocking gently, he wrapped his arms around himself and allowed the tears to come. They were mixed with blood and splashed redly on his chest to mingle there with more blood.

After a time, he numbly managed to unfold and dig through his backpack for clothes and food. The monster had left his things largely alone; there were even unopened bottles of root beer, and he greedily sucked down two of them while he ate several nutri-bars as slowly as he was able, dressing in between bites. 

No one bothered him. No one was here. No one … especially not a mad-eyed monster who wore his beloved’s face. No one.

After resting and healing the worst of his wounds – except the ones that wouldn’t heal, the ones deep inside – he made his way out of the ruined apartment to explore the Temple, to see what he could salvage before moving on.

He thought it might be some time before he gained the courage to do so. After all, the next world might have another Qui-Gon in it.

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE pay attention. This episode contains M/F rape, sodomy, M/M rape, torture, S/M, character death, het content and graphic descriptions of nasty things. That being said... this episode is also quite essential to the entire Wheel saga, and events that happen here will have repercussions on all the other Wheel Episodes. It's not a long fic. I can't force you to read it or not to read it, but I can remind you... it's ONLY A STORY.
> 
> Caveat lector.


End file.
